Sure, I'm going to hell, or rather just spend some time in it here, but I can't help it. I wish bad things on people. At least once a day I find cause to wish that things fall through, that things don't work out and that this person that I'm wishing these things on is sad.
I find it hard to deal with the fact that people I think are officially terrible people make so much money.
Then I think, that is why men made money, so when they go bald they can still get laid. Mean, fat, bald men don't deserve money. It makes me jealous and think really bad thoughts. I wish so many people unhappiness.
Before MP went to Korea I made him this little box. I made it out of a plain white school box. I made a collage on this box and put fun things in there. Something small to take with him a little box of home. Of me, really. He sent it back home with his things. It got to me last week. Looking at it after all these months apart is strange. I had forgotten about it. I love the box. I kind of want to take it back. But I'm not whatever the p.c. term for indian giver is, a renig-er. Nope, I don't think that is the p.c. version. MP put all the postcards I sent him in that box. I re-read them. Two of them I sent to San Antonio. Those two postcards are lovely. It makes me happy that my beautiful words are in the world. Some people have novels, I have postcards. Easier to publish, plus brevity always was my strong suit.
Misery Specialist: You could hire me and I would go hang out with a person of your choice and share my misery with them. It would make them feel bad and misery loves company.
Pessimistic Advisor- I will shoot down all your dreams in a matter of seconds. Of course that wouldn't be lucrative so I would have to take a lot longer if I want to get paid by the hour. My personal favorite.
Conversation between me, my dad and my brother talking about someone we know:
Brother: He is a professional bridge burner.
Me: I'm getting there.
Dad: When was the last time you got drunk and told your boss you were going to kick their ass.
Ugh, If I ever become a person who yells and is rude to everyone I encounter, unless of course that person can do something for me, just kill me. I hate, HATE when somebody pushes their anxiety on me, wants me to rush, and so on, because they think that is the way it should me. I refuse to live my life rushed. If I ever read my facebook posts and the comments of perfect strangers to you from my phone it should be clear to you that a disease or space aliens have already done too much damage to my brain and the return of Lauren is impossible, just kill me. If I ever tell you a story, and please this one is for real, if I ever tell you a story and about three seconds in you want to claw your eyes out because it is so boring, even if I am smiling and laughing like it should be funny, please, god, tell me, "That was the worst piece of shit story I have ever heard."
I have known about this for more than a week, but I've just gotten over it enough to write about it.
In case you were on the fence about wether my area manager was a terrible person, here is one reason alone. I was told that her and her girlfriend bought an english bulldog puppy. I'm assuming here, that is was from a puppy mill, because they had it shipped from Syracuse, New York. Why would you do that to a puppy? Guess what? It died of heart worms two days later. She let an English Bulldog puppy die on her watch and supports puppy mills. Mortal Enemy? I think so. It takes everything I have to be in the same room with her. Literally, I'm exhausted afterwards.
I am trying really hard to stay employed, but it makes me feel worthless when I have to eat people's shit all the time.
Dreams crushed. By the way, not going to live in that apartment. Moving on.
We are in single digits on the countdown. I can hardly believe it.
I sleep with things in my bed. Right now I have a Twilight Zone box set and a blackbird, fly that I slept with last night, not to mention the usual cell phone and hair clips.
The other day at work one of our regulars had a break down. I mean, explosion. He looks homeless, turns out he has a job. Nevertheless, he needs to reconnect with the shower. His wallet is a gallon, zip-top bag. He keeps that in a plastic grocery bag. He pays 2.94 once a week to keep all his loans current. And when he is waiting at the counter he rattles those bags something fierce. I try not to look to see what he is doing. I keep my eyes on the computer. So, this Monday he comes in and it was busy. There was a regular in front of him that was taking a while and she asking a lot of questions. The whole time he stands behind her and rattles the bag and does some heavy breathing. The woman keeps looking back, I could see the fear in her eyes. When he finally gets to the counter he is acting like he is in a hurry. I'm thinking your homeless what have you got to rush for, then he says that he is going to lose his job over this. He then rushes some more, fruitlessly. When the transaction is done he runs to the door. Then, the strap of his grocery bag breaks half way through the door. He is the only one anywhere near the door. Half in and half out of the store he yells, "FUCK! GET OUT OF MY WAY, BITCH!" Funny. I have re-played that in my head so many times since it has happened. My co-worker does a damn good impression of it.
I saw this apartment today. This little rock dream of an apartment. IN an amazing neighborhood. Amazing on the inside. Oh. I mean. Built in the 30's in good condition. All the window frames are dark wood. Beautiful. I think the bedroom is pink, but you hardly notice. Who cares. There is a little office nook. One bedroom. Amazingly cute kitchen with a tile countertop in white, except for the tile they put around the edge which is about a one x two rectangle of medical seafoam, uh... My heart cries out for medical seafoam. The bathroom is painted Lauren yellow with black and white tile floors. Built in book shelves in this little through way from bedroom to living room. I could faint.
Dreams will probably be dashed. But god damn I want this place. This is the first place that I have felt that about.
13 days. Not this Friday, but next. I like to close my eyes and think Not this Friday, but next. I tried clicking my heels, but nothing happened.
I'm pretty sure someone stole my ipod. I can't find it. It had to have been at work. If you see a giant ipod that makes you think to yourself did this come from an archeologist dig. It's mine, please return.
I'm like a genetically modified chicken- all thigh. I would draw you a diagram, but I don't have any way of getting it to you.
I can't make a fucking decision to save my life. It probably would save what little life I have left.
I cried at least 13 times today. If I continue being by myself I might make it to 16. I'm leaving this room soon.
I have written some things in a very very unorganized way that just need to be sorted out. I can't make myself do it. I like the catharsis. The work freezes me.
I tend to listen to a song over and over and over. So Far Away. Then I switch to Way Over Yonder. I've exhausted Joni Mitchell. I'm on to Carol King.
I NEED a work space. Like I need oxygen. I'm pretty sure this is only adding to my depression. My bed isn't cutting it. I can't sleep here, write here, do crafts on it. I just can't do it anymore.